


Talk About Something Pretty

by spinyfruit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Art, Bittersweet, F/M, Falling In Love, Freeform, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Vignette, and fawning over beautiful strangers, there has to be art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5286860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinyfruit/pseuds/spinyfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don’t want to love, I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to think, I don’t want to try… What sort of person goes to art museums? What sort of person goes alone? And why do so many lonely, dazed, and tired people end up so close, only to be too far? Vignette series. Different pairings per chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface: Everything Begins in the Louvre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGoliathBeetle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoliathBeetle/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Been gone a while-many reasons, but it's the usual thing. I'm back with this series of little vignettes as a congratulatory and gift-fic for The Goliath Beetle who just completed her exams. These stories are going to have a bit of a melancholy feel, but sometimes that can be nice to read to as well. 
> 
> If you have the time, send The Goliath Beetle a message and brighten her day! I'm sure she'd appreciate it.
> 
> Also, to those who celebrate it, happy Thanksgiving!

_Does it happen so often to everyone? Is it my curse? Do I love to fall so much, or is it just that I'm incapable of standing upright altogether?_

There's something horribly perfect about a stranger that is so tempting. Perhaps it's because people love secrets so much, and there's nothing more secret than making love with your eyes. Knowing is what hurts. And to not know anything at all about the man sitting at a cafe, reading a newspaper and looking ways away, or the woman walking far too fast, almost tripping over her own feet…it adds the most pleasant and safest of mysteries.

And it's hard to forget that person you met so briefly when the color of their eyes was burned into your skin, and the sound of their voice lingers by your ears like a torturous bee.

However, even the pain of remembering could never compare to the regret of not acting, and not taking those few steps forward and asking for a name, a number, another moment of their time.

_Because I do regret it. I regret it everyday I see a dress that looks like yours did, or a laugh that sounded like you, and more often, whenever I happen to be at the Louvre, and I pass by that painting you found me staring at so solemnly that day. It's whenever I'm there I remember your hand gesturing to a painting on the right, and you said:_

" _Let's talk about something pretty."_


	2. Van Gosh Museum, Amsterdam, Netherlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denmark/Norway

It was nice, the ambience. A Friday evening in the Amsterdam springtime, and the lucky occasion to visit the Van Gogh Museum at night. And inside, there were animations dancing across the walls, a DJ, and a cocktail bar below for visitors to mingle.

But somehow, that pretty, charming ambience didn’t travel to the upstairs, and it most certainly didn’t paint the auras of two people so resistant.

One of the men, shorter, more feminine, was staring intently at a landscape. His eyes deliberately traced every one of Van Gogh’s bulky strokes and made no move to recognize the attention of the taller man to his left.

“Lukas,” the man said, his tone in between a plea and a warning. It shouldn’t be strange, but for a person whose primary face is joy and giddiness, it appeared like a dark side. _(The true side?)_

Lukas opened his mouth and eventually responded with a soft yet firm, “what?”

The taller man pressed his lips together and glared with iced eyes. “Are we going to talk?”

_Are we going to talk? Are we going to talk? Who needs words? Who needs them. Can’t we just be without saying? Do you have to know everything?_

Lukas’s chin lowered in exhale. Then he he turned his heel, and his scarf fluttered after him. “I want to see the next painting.”

Van Gogh’s self-portrait and the taller man exchanged equally raging glances.


	3. Acropolis Museum, Athens, Greece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greece/Turkey

Sadik didn't think, he did. A man of action, a person of success; someone respected, someone important, someone needed. So he believed that gave him some right to look down on the strangers who muddled along in the world, swaying with every turn of the wind and tripping over the struggles instead of jumping over them.

Sadik woke up in the morning with adrenaline pulsing through his veins, because he knew each day the world was at his feet. His grin was as bright as the crescent moon.

 

* * *

 

Sadik traveled a lot. It was due to his energy and drive to see the world, and he felt some satisfaction in leaving his mark on every place that he graced (whether it was by a glamorous purchase, a fight, a win, or a lover). It was also a pleasure of his to revisit the favorites: this time, Athens.

Athens was special to him. It was like a fantasy world. The moment he set foot on the streets he sensed it. And the view from atop of the Acropolis, looking out on the sea of sparkling white houses, it was like falling into a daydream.

Even the people were so different from him. They were kind, thoughtful, a bit careless, and walked with their heads in the clouds. At first he found them amusing from a patronizing point of view, and in all truthfulness, he still rather does. But it was also…

Some other feeling Sadik could never figure out. And that was why he came back again and again.

 

* * *

 

Ironically, the newest thing in Athens was the Acropolis Museum: a fancy and modern clear, glass building housing Greece's most precious pieces of carved, white marble. Sadik came every trip, almost out of habit. He often didn't realize he was walking there until the glass doors mocked him with his reflection.

But he just  _couldn't_  stay away.

 

* * *

 

Did Sadik say habit? No, it was a ritual. He hadn't made the conscious decision to return year after year, it was like some external force, something from the outside had compelled him to come back.  _And why? For the art? For the atmosphere? For the hell of it? If only…_

"Oh, it's you."

Sadik dug his nails into his palms.

Standing in front of him, with an expression of bored contempt was the asshole responsible for everything. His olive-green eyes hardly changed when he asked, "Sick of your own country again?"

Sadik's lips curled, and god was he furious. Because deep down he knew it. He came back year after year to see the bastard with some indescribable pull. "I'm surprised this dump is still up and running."

Herakles - Sadik was civil enough to find the man's name at least - was one of the security guards in the Acropolis Museum. Sadik had seen him the very first visit, and each time he had returned, Herakles was still patrolling, and they never failed to squabble. Sadik walked up to him with that purpose, and Herakles played along by following Sadik's route.

"No touching the art!"

Sadik halted his footsteps and fearfully looked around. He saw a glass cases a few feet away and Herakles not-smiling, but still somehow glittering in self-satisfaction. Sadik straightened himself and returned a glare.

"You're a smug prick, aren't you?" he said.

Herakles rolled his head to the side. "Aren't you?"

Sadik's favorite stop were the caryatids. It was one of the higher security areas, and it wasn't only Herakles watching him, so he was allowed a few moments of silence. He and Herakles exchanged arguments only with their eyes, although Herakles was always more stoic than he.

When Sadik looked at him, he saw everything opposite to himself, and everything that epitomized the Athenian atmosphere. Herakles was wistful, with eyes heavy, dazed and faraway, even when he was talking. Because he was thoughtful, lost in his own mind.

Sadik couldn't sit still in his longer for a second, so did he envy Herakles? Did Herakles envy Sadik?

How thick is the line between envy and admiration?

 

* * *

 

"What time is it?" Herakles asked. He had trailed Sadik down to the first floor, not far from the exit.

Sadik scoffed. "You never know do you? Why would you even need to know?"

Herakles didn't say anything. He slid his hands into his pockets and shifted his eyes to the sunlight sparkling through the window. "The Acropolis is at its most beautiful at sunset and sunrise."

Sadik furrowed his brow and paid him more attention. "Do you still go there?"

"Do you?"

Sadik rolled his eyes and checked his pants for his phone. "It's almost four thirty."

Herakles nodded ever so slightly, and replied, "it's almost time then."

"Time for what?"  _Fuck, did Sadik hate questions. No one asked more of them than the strange Greek._

But Herakles was always calm, even when he wasn't. He held Sadik's eyes for too long a pause and said, "I already told you."

 _Did you? Do you ever tell me anything? Really?_  Sadik wanted to scream. He always wanted to yell at Herakles, and he wondered if those stirring green eyes felt the same.

"Well," Herakles sighed, and took a few lazy strides ahead. "See you later."

"What the  _fu_ -" Sadik started, but stopped when Herakles strut through the door. There's no point in cursing if the bastard wasn't around to hear it. So he just stood in the same place, between the stairs and the exit, wondering which way to go. Herakles grew smaller and smaller as he paced up the hill.

A few thoughts flitted about, and one of them stuck. The sun was radiant, and Herakles shadow reached far behind him.

"I guess I can see the damn Acropolis one more time," Sadik grumbled. He walked through the exit and followed Herakles this time.

 


	4. Belvedere Museum, Vienna, Austria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spamano

Vienna was dead. Is that what it felt like?

Coming from the hustle and bustle of Rome, Lovino thought he may have walked on the graveyard of a city that  _was_ , and not  _is_. He looked up at the gray and white Baroque buildings decorated in the scattered, sparkling mist, and they looked completely different than the gray and white Baroque buildings in Rome. Because whereas these were dead, cold, and perfect, the ones in Rome were alive, and warm, and completely imperfect.

But Lovino didn't feel alive. And in fact, he felt much more comfortable walking in the veil of a city and country he didn't belong to. At least he was hidden. At least he was a mystery. At least he was free. And freedom exists only in anonymity. Isn't that right?

 

* * *

 

It was Spring, but not in the Roman way. The Vienna streets were quiet, vacant, almost ghostly. Lovino breezed through them easily on his trek to the Belvedere. There was no reason for him to be in Vienna aside from the lack of reason itself, but he liked museums and the safety of them. It was social without the interaction, and productive without the doing.

And besides, his brother had been raving about Gustav Klimt since his trip last year.

Lovino liked art. He liked making art. Appreciating it was something foreign to him, but he did try to understand. It was hard though. Lovino felt so small, walking through the gates and gardens of the Belvedere. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ignored the clumsy crackle of the gravel beneath his shoes. He put on an annoyed and bored expression and stalked up to the person selling tickets.

Lovino liked museums. But he also despised them.

Lovino wanted to be anonymous and alone. But he also didn't.

If Lovino made any sense at all, he wouldn't have run away that weekend.

 

* * *

 

"And now we arrive at his most famous work, painted at the highpoint of his 'Golden Period,'  _The Kiss_."

Lovino shuffled to the side and made room for the daunting group of foreign tourists. They tilted their heads and rubbed their chins and conversed pretentiously about the woman and man of the painting. Lovino looked with them, but he didn't see what they did. He couldn't let himself fall into the world of the painting. All Lovino could do was let his eyes rage across the canvas, picking up where Gustav's brush went and analyzing the method of work. And inside, he hurt.

He didn't want attention, he really didn't. But the ugly realization that flocks of people would never ogle over his drawings kept picking and picking at his heart. Not that he was an artist.

But he did…like to make art.

To his right, the group of tourists had exchanged for a band of art students. They all eagerly leaned forward and scribbled on their sketchbooks. Lovino rolled his eyes and moved away from the  _The Kiss_. He began glaring at a new piece of work. Each one seemed better than the last. Lovino curled his fingers in the fabric of his pockets.

"It seems like your group is leaving without you," a man said in accented English.

Lovino ignored the voice and kept glaring. The stranger was obviously talking to someone else.

"Hello," the man called again, this time very musically. He tapped Lovino on the shoulder.

Lovino's heart picked up at the prospect of talking to someone ( _a-n-y-o-n-e_ ), but he kept a straight face and turned around.

The man, a young, handsome man, greeted him with a smile and solid, green eyes. They sparkled when he spoke again. "Isn't that your group that just left?"

Lovino flashed his eyes in the direction of the door and back again. "No."

The man raised his brows, waiting for more, but Lovino never gave it to him. So with that same musical and soothing voice, he asked, "are you here on your own then?"

"Yes," Lovino replied. He could feel a curious stare on his cheek, but Lovino focused on the painting.

"How alone are you exactly?"

Lovino scrunched his brows together and gave the man a scowl. "What kind of question is that?"

The man laughed, and it was so happy. "Sorry. I'm not very good with words. I never seem to be able to say what I'm thinking," his voice trailed off and his lips curled like it was all  _so_  amusing. "What I meant was that you seem kind of young to be by yourself. And you don't really sound, or look, like you're from around here."

Why was Lovino so combustible? It's as though his blood were gasoline, and any wrong word lit him on fire. But he could restrain himself. He had practice.

"I'm not young," he answered slowly. "I'm twenty-one. And I'm traveling." Lovino stomped to another painting, hoping to gain some distance from the stranger.

But green-eyes just trailed behind, chuckling softly to himself. "Oh, is that so? You look a lot younger than you are, I must admit. But still, why are you traveling by yourself…um, did you tell me your name?"

"I'm not telling you my name," Lovino quipped simply. "And I just wanted to get away from home for a while."

"And where is your home?"

"I'm not telling you that." Lovino glanced over his shoulder and caught the man admiring the painting rather tenderly. "Why are you talking to me?"

The man met Lovino's gaze, and it was so terrifying. (Lovino didn't feel small at all.) "Because you're interesting," he said.

Lovino turned his head away. "Well, I'm not."

"Because you're lonely."

"I'm not."

"Because you're pretty."

"I'm-" Lovino's breath caught in his throat, and all of his frustration rushed to his cheeks in embarrassment. "I'm not  _pretty_."

"Yes, you are."

"I don't like that word."

"But it suits you so well!"

"No," Lovino stated as he pressed the back of his hands to his cheeks. "It doesn't."

The man hummed, but didn't counter anymore.

Lovino bit his lip and mustered the courage to continue walking, he entered the next room. He had too many mixed feelings when the stranger's hum had followed him there.

"Well, I'm Antonio, and I'm from Spain," the man declared. "And I traveled here because I was lonely."

"How ironic," Lovino muttered.

"How so?"

"I traveled to get alone."

"And how has that been?"

"Unsuccessful."

Antonio's smile had an aura, and Lovino didn't have to look to know it was there. "I really like you," he said.

Lovino stared at him as best he could. But it was getting harder and harder to look at the green eyes, handsome smile and curly hair. He turned away and attempted to ignore his blush. "Go away."

"In due time. After all I have a plane to catch tonight. Can't miss that."

"Your trip's over?" Lovino asked curiously.

"It is," Antonio answered easily.

Lovino debated briefly, but asked anyway, "was it what you wanted?"

As smooth as a cat, Antonio said, "it is now."

Lovino crossed his arms, wishing he could curl further and further into himself. "You're creepy."

That seemed to scratch at Antonio's confident; Lovino took a secret pride in that. But in the next moment, Antonio was laughing again. "That's rather mean, wouldn't you say? I may be strange, but artists always are in one way or another," he left the words hanging for a beat before adding, "you're quite an odd little artist too, if I may say so."

"I'm not an artist," Lovino blurted instinctively.

Antonio seemed to analyze those words: he was quiet for a while. "You seem to know a lot about what you're not. Do you know what you are?"

_What I am?_

_What am I?_

_Am I…(a bastard, a child, a loser, a brother, a savant, a son, a lunatic, a lost cause, a waiter, a person who draws, a fool)…what?_

One of his talents: if Lovino didn't know what to say, he didn't say anything at all. Instead, he turned his head and walked into the next room.

 

* * *

 

Self-reflection is an obsession.

 

* * *

 

A picture is worth a thousand words, so how much prose would it take to communicate the complexity of a human being?

 

* * *

 

Antonio left his home for more than a vacation. It was just as he said, he was lonely. He knew the town too well, and its people; but he also knew himself, and that last realization made the survival in the town so much harder. He was alone. No one there understood his soul. No one could empathize, no one could listen. Maybe it was just a small town, maybe he needed to be somewhere bigger. So he traveled. He visited cities in Spain and in countries nearby, he met so many lovely people, and ones more complicated and sensitive.

But Antonio still felt an aching loneliness he didn't know how to cure.

 

* * *

 

Vienna seemed to be a lonely city, so Antonio was comforted in that fact. He was alone, but so was everyone else: and Antonio knew because he was always watching. He was always observing. He was always trying to understand. He loved people so much.

 

* * *

 

Antonio went to the Belvedere everyday during his stay. He walked every room and looked at every painting; the excuse for the trip was inspiration after all, he couldn't squander all his time strolling through parks and graveyards.

And it was hard for someone to escape Antonio's view. He usually caught every person at least for a moment. But the young boy with a black jacket, staring forlornly at a Klimt seemed to materialize out of thin air, just as Antonio was preparing to sigh.

 

* * *

 

But he should've known that it was a pipe dream.

When he had the chance to follow the mysterious boy again, he couldn't find the strength to do it. Because it was pointless, wasn't it? The day will be a dream by tomorrow, and the friendship or the romance, or neither of the two won't matter back home. And it's easier if it's nothing.

The boy was walking further and further away, but Antonio could still feel the heat of those amber eyes.

Perhaps he should cherish the memory and leave it at that.

Antonio backed away.

 

* * *

 

The sun was falling. It was breaking the mist.

 

* * *

 

"Antonio!" a loud, but unmistakably reluctant yell echoed down the hill of the street.

Antonio jolted and turned around fast. He couldn't see much through the glare of the sun, but someone was standing up there.

"If you have a problem with me, settle it in Rome," the voice, now clearer yelled again. It was the boy.

Antonio was stunned for a second, but then laughter bubbled from his lips.

"Is that funny to you?" the boy demanded, his voice was shakier now, on the verge of shyness.

 _It is. It really is._  "I don't even know your name," Antonio complained with a smile.

The boy scoffed, "as if I'd tell you that." He was already jogging away.

Antonio was still laughing, he couldn't stop. When life takes a spin like a dream, it's never easy to believe. But serendipity does happen. Antonio leaned against the wall to catch his breath. He only had one option: might as well take the bull by the horns and see what happens.

Maybe he would find what he was looking for in Rome, or maybe not. If loneliness was designed to be his curse, he might as well follow any trick of escape.

Antonio sighed.

That boy was so interesting, and so lonely, and so, so pretty.


End file.
